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a falsetto voice。 “YOU’RE PRETTY； BUT TOO WHOLESOME。 AND THE OUTFIT
DOES NOTHING FOR YOU！”
“My name’s Andrea。 I’m Miranda’s new assistant。”
He moved his eyes up and down over my body； inspecting every inch。
Emily was watching the spectacle with a sneer on her face。 The
silence was unbearable。
“KNEE…HIGH BOOTS？ WITH A KNEE…LENGTH SKIRT？ ARE YOU KIDDING ME？ BABY
GIRL； IN CASE YOU’RE UNAWARE—IN CASE YOU MISSED THE BIG； BLACK SIGN
BY THE DOOR—THIS ISRUNWAY MAGAZINE； THE FUCKINGHIIPPEST MAGAZINE ON
EARTH。 ON EARTH！ BUT NO WORRIES； HONEY； NIGEL WILL GET RID OF THAT
JERSEY MALL…RAT LOOK YOU’VE GOT GOING SOON ENOUGH。”
He put both his massive hands on my hips and twirled me around。 I
could feel his eyes looking at my legs and tush。
“SOON ENOUGH； SWEETIE； I PROMISE YOU； BECAUSE YOU’RE GOOD RAW
MATERIAL。 NICE LEGS； GREAT HAIR； AND NOT FAT。 I CAN WORK WITH NOT
FAT。 SOON ENOUGH； SWEETIE。”
I wanted to be offended； to pull myself away from the grip he had on
my lower body； to take a few minutes and mull over the fact that a
plete stranger—and a coworker； no less—had just provided an
unsolicited and unflinchingly honest account of my outfit and my
figure； but I wasn’t。 I liked his kind green eyes that seemed to
laugh instead of taunt； but more than that； I liked that I had
passed。 This was Nigel— single name； like Madonna or Prince—the
fashion authority whom even I recognized from TV； magazines； the
society pages； everywhere； and he had called me pretty。 And said I
had nice legs！ I let the mall…rat ment slide。 Iliked this guy。
I heard Emily tell him to leave me alone from somewhere in the
background； but I didn’t want him to go。 Too late； he was already
heading for the door； his fur cape flapping behind him。 I wanted to
call out； tell him it had been nice to meet him； that I wasn’t
offended by what he said and was excited that he wanted to redo me。
But before I could say a thing； Nigel whipped around and covered the
space between us in two strides； each the length of a long jump。 He
planted himself directly in front of me； wrapped my entire body with
his massive； rippling arms； and pressed me to him。 My head rested
just below his chest； and I smelled the unmistakable scent of
Johnson’s Baby Lotion。 And just as I had the presence of mind to hug
him back； he flung me backward； engulfed both of my hands in his；
and screeched：
“WELE TO THE DOLLHOUSE； BABY！”
5
“He said what？” Lily asked as she licked a spoonful of green tea ice
cream。 She and I had met at Sushi Samba at nine so I could update
her on my first day。 My parents had grudgingly forked over the
emergencies…only credit card again until I got my first paycheck。
Spicy tuna rolls and seaweed salads certainly felt like an
emergency； and so I silently thanked Mom and Dad for treating Lily
and me so well。
“He said； ‘Wele to the dollhouse； baby。’ I swear。 How cool is
that？”
She looked at me； mouth hung open； spoon suspended in midair。
“You have the coolest job I’ve ever heard of；” said Lily； who always
talked about how she should’ve worked for a year before going back
to school。
“It does seem pretty cool； doesn’t it？ Definitely weird； but cool；
too。 Whatever；” I said； digging in to my oozing chocolate brownie。
“It’s not like I wouldn’t rather be a student again than doing any
of this。”
“Yeah； I’m sure you’d just love to work part…time to finance your
obscenely expensive and utterly useless Ph。D。 You would； wouldn’t
you？ You’re jealous that I get to bartend in an undergrad pub； get
hit on by freshmen until fourA 。M。 every night； and then head to
class all day； aren’t you？ All of it knowing that if—and that’s a
big； fat if—you manage to finish at some point in the next seventeen
years； you’ll never get a job。 Anywhere。” She plastered on a big；
fake smile and took a swig of her Sapporo。 Lily was studying for her
Ph。D。 in Russian Literature at Columbia and working odd jobs every
free second she wasn’t studying。 Her grandmother barely had enough
money to support herself； and Lily wouldn’t qualify for grants until
she’d finished her master’s； so it was remarkable she’d even e
out that night。
I took the bait； as I always did when she bitched about her life。
“So why do you do it； Lil？” I asked； even though I’d heard the
answer a million times。
Lily snorted and rolled her eyes again。 “Because I love it！” she
sang sarcastically。 And even though she’d never admit it because it
was so much more fun to plain； she did love it。 She’d developed a
thing for Russian culture ever since her eighth…grade teacher told
her that Lily looked how he had always pictured Lolita； with her
round face and curly black hair。 She went directly Home and read
Nabokov’s masterpiece of lechery； never allowing the whole
teacher…Lolita reference to bother her； and then read everything
else Nabokov wrote。 And Tolstoy。 And Gogol。 And Chekhov。 By the time
college rolled around； she was applying to Brown to work with a
specific Russian lit professor who； upon interviewing
seventeen…year…old Lily； had declared her one of the most well read
and passionate students of Russian literature he’d ever
met—undergrad； graduate； or otherwise。 She still loved it； still
studied Russian grammar and could read anything in its original； but
she enjoyed whining about it more。
“Yeah； well； I definitely agree that I have the best gig around。 I
mean； Tommy Hilfiger？ Chanel？ Oscar de la Renta’s apartment？ Quite a
first day。 I have to say； I’m not quite sure how all of this is
going to get me any closer toThe New Yorker； but maybe it’s just too
early to tell。 It’s just not seeming like reality； you know？”
“Well； anytime you feel like getting back in touch with reality； you
know where to find me；” Lily said； taking her MetroCard out of her
purse。 “If you get a craving for a little ghetto； if you’re just
dying to keep it real in Harlem； well； my luxurious
two…hundred…and…fifty…square…foot studio is all yours。”
I paid the check and we hugged good…bye； and she tried to give me
specific instructions on how to get from Seventh Avenue and
Christopher Street to my own sublet all the way uptown。 I swore up
and down that I understood exactly where to find the L…train and
then the 6； and how to walk from the 96th Street stop to my
apartment； but as soon as she left； I jumped in a cab。
Just this once；I thought to myself； sinking into the warm backseat
and trying not to breathe in the driver’s body odor。I’m a Runwaygirl
now 。
I was pleased to discover that the rest of that first week wasn’t
much different than the first day。 On Friday； Emily and I met in the
stark white lobby again at sevenA 。M。； and this time she handed me
my own ID card； plete with a picture that I didn’t remember
taking。
“From the security camera；” she said when I stared at it。 “They’re
everywhere around here； just so you know。 They’ve had some major
problems with people stealing stuff； the clothes and jewelry called
in for shoots； it seems the messengers and sometimes even the
editors just help themselves。 So now they track everyone。” She slid
her card down the slot and the thick glass door clicked open。
“Track？ What exactly do you mean by ‘track’？”
She moved quickly down the hallway toward our offices； her hips
swishing back and forth； back and forth in the skintight tan Seven
cords she was wearing。 She’d told me the day before that I should
seriously consider getting a pair or ten； as these were among the
only jeans or corduroys that Miranda would permit people to wear in
the office。 Those and the MJ’s were OK； but only on Friday； and only
if worn with high heels。 MJ’s？ “Marc Jacobs；” she had said；
exasperated。
“Well； between the cameras and the cards； they kind of know what
everyone’s doing；” she said as she dropped her Gucci logo tote on
her desk。 She began unbuttoning her very fitted leather blazer； a
coat that looked supremely inadequate for the late…November weather。
“I don’t think they actually look at the cameras unless something’s
missing； but the cards tell everything。 Like； every time you swipe
it downstairs to get past the security counter or on the floor to
get in the door； they know where you are。 That’s how they tell if
people are at work； so if you have to be out—and you never will； but
just in case something really awful happens—you’ll just give me your
card and I’ll swipe it。 That way you’ll still get paid for all the
days you mis